


Biggles and the concupiscible pilot

by id_ten_it



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:11:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He asks, “Because you have a vested interest in men?” and rests his own fingers lightly against his collar bones, feeling his pulse.<br/>“Only in some.” The reply is guarded and Algy looks back at him, and then glances away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biggles and the concupiscible pilot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatty/gifts).



> This is based off a newspaper article I read a while back. It seemed too good a story to not include in the Johns universe.

"It's no good grumbling at me, lad. He's spoken and that's that."

Ginger frowned up at his companion. "Don't you ever argue with him? Seems all you ever do these days is kowtow to his demands. I've read stories about the war, you know. You didn't used to just do what he wanted, back then. You had command without his help, sometimes." he sounded bitter, disillusioned.

Algy reflected that meeting a boyhood hero was one thing, living with him was probably quite another. He'd never know, since all his had been thoroughly worked over by four years of war.

"You know we don't always agree." he said instead, "but it doesn't always pay to make a big thing of it. Not if I can get what I want, or better, another way."

The thought didn't seem to occur to Ginger before, though he'd used similar tactics as a boy. "You don't always." he defended himself, before sighing lustily.

 "Now lad, you wouldn't want to be heading to the bash with a cold, is all that'll happen if you sigh." a slight pause, then the tone lifted, became lighter and more conspiratorial, "You are aware there's a perfectly good changing room there, and a perfectly decent water spout next to your window."

Ginger grinned, the dark look lifting immediately. "I am. Will you really cover for me Algy?" at the smiling nod, he added contritely, "Gee! I take it all back."

 

***

 

Mrs Symes was halfway up the stairs when she heard raised voices. She paused, glanced at the already only warm tray and continued dubiously. The words got more distinct.

"...Let him! I said..."

"But he's not been out for weeks, and this is work related. He can't hope to do his job and learn if the others are..."

"It doesn't matter what they think! He can blow off steam with them on Saturday afternoon. What's 18 hours difference going to make?"

She heard sudden steps, a pause; Mr Lacey said something (all she caught was 'j' and the 'es' of Biggles) and a deep sigh. Glancing at the tray again she shrugged carefully and knocked. "Tea, Major, and crumpets that you enjoy so much." she smiled determinedly, tutting over how worn he looked. "Where's Mr. Lacey? Should I pour for him as well?" The major glanced around but was spared an answer, "If you'd be so kind, Mrs. Symes. Will you join us?" Ever alert, Mr. Lacey stepped into the room with a half- smile. "You haven't for a while and we've been missing you."

After their argument she wasn't surprised he'd bitten back the usual 'haven't we, old chap?" that he habitually added onto the end.

 

***

 

"This is ridiculous." Biggles said the next day. "He'll be late for work- see why I wasn't wanting for him to go?"

Algy shrugged, "There are lots of reasons why you didn't want him to go, don't pretend they're all altruistic." he spread his marmalade on the toast carefully, eyes fixed on the knife.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Biggles snapped, own eyes flicking up from his half- devoured toast, intent.

Algy glanced up, and then straightened to meet the clear gaze of his friend. "Once Mrs Symes left, so did you. You're avoiding me, and that's easier with Ginger about. Incidentally, he stayed with a boy who boards across from work, so he'd be on time. He takes it very seriously. As you know."

That he was avoiding Algy hadn't passed Biggles' mind. He’d just been trying to ignore _it_.

 

Following an incident a week ago when Biggles had rushed to Algy upon the latter emerging, battered but upright, from a freak accident, relations had felt strained. They were close, but they were English and Englishmen don't cling to each other for a good thirty seconds in peace time, even behind a hanger well out of sight. (There was a turbulent cross wind, no fuel and a vicious flock of birds to ensure their solitude). Especially not Englishmen who are living together.

 

Biggles realised they hadn't flown since and that Algy wasn't trying to kill him by eye power alone at roughly the same time. "How about we go up together come the weekend? If you like we'll turn Ginger loose with Smyth, take up some two- seater." He had been more self- insulating than Algy- ignoring, and it was time to fly in the same plane again.

"No amphibians." said Algy, but it was forgiveness and acceptance in one statement.

 

***

 

Ginger eagerly tumbled out of the car carrying three flight bags, neatly packed, and a pair of old overalls. "What's the plan?" He asked, staring about him as though new to the aerodrome.

"Smyth said there was some work still to do on the Avro from last week." Apparently Biggles couldn't bring himself to say the words 'Algy crashed', though the man in question was already heading towards the hanger, healthy as ever. "We're going to do a spot of hedge- hopping and test out some instruments, and then we'll come back and get you for lunch. No driving on the airstrip this time!" Ginger grinned and slipped behind some old struts and a fuselage, quickly changing into his overalls. "No fear, boss. I'll be as good as gold."

"I doubt that." Algy called back, reappearing from a weather check and smiling warmly. "Hullo, Smyth. How are you?"

"Well thanks, sir. And yourself? Not too battered I hope?"

"Not at all, I've had worse falling out of bed, although the bed did come out better off than she did- I'm sorry about that."

Smyth shrugged. Such accidents happened, of course, and the club was well used to them, Smyth in particular proving adept at weaving a fuselage out of nothing but air. "You're going up, I see. That'll leave me plenty of leeway to drill the lad, then?"

The other two joined in the grin, "Of course. Just make sure his legs are still intact- he's very good at running messages." Biggles rejoined. They slid out, bags in hand, before Ginger could do more than just splutter.

 

***

 

"Here, take the stick!" Algy yelled through the gosport, already peering down below him and around the lower wing. Dutifully Biggles did, shouting back, "I have control" with a pleasure he hadn't felt for almost a year. Flying was a fickle business to hunt out your thrills in, but well worth it.

Algy was peering over the port side and Biggles obligingly went into a shallow turn based off the church spire about a mile distant. He only rolled wings level when Algy sat up properly again.

"If I didn't know better," he began loudly, "I'd say there was a gunfight happening down there." he supplemented his commentary with some awful, but understandable, mime.

"A gunfight in England?" Biggles replied, derisively, "You've been spending too much time with Ginger by half." But he frowned as he spoke, for he, too, had spotted ominous flickers of light and a couple of bangs over the sounds of the aeroplane. Finally he sighed, "Very well. Take her down."

It was easier, in the 621, to hand over control to the pilot in the front for unscheduled landings like this one- a better forward observation was only the half of it.

Half an hour later they were within 50 yards of the house and warily approaching it. There were a handful of spent bullet- casings near the back window- which had been shattered- and hurried footprints. Algy raised his eyebrows at Biggles, who nodded and shrugged. Ginger would be sore he'd missed this particular adventure, but they weren't going to fly back and pick him up just to get him into trouble.

Algy slithered near the back door, Biggles to the front. Waiting for five counts, Biggles knocked. There was no sound from within for a heartbeat, and then there was a groan. Biggles called through the door, but receiving nothing but another groan in response, turned the mercifully unlocked handle and stepped in.

A four- roomed house stood before him, a breeze announcing the shattered window and with signs of bullets every which way. Moving through the sitting room he passed into the kitchen, ignoring the room- he assumed it was a bedroom- to his right. The groaning got louder and he hurriedly reached over to unlock the back door and let in a worried Algy before crouching down to peer at the figure slumped against the sink.

"Quick, Algy, some towels!" There was some blood still oozing sluggishly from the woman's arm and Biggles knelt to inspect the cause more carefully.

The bullet was lodged in there, and he let it be, pressing hard on the wound with the towels Algy had brought before tying it into a makeshift bandage.

Meanwhile his companion had ferreted through the cupboards and come up with sherry and a cup. Making a face, he poured some of the liquor into her mouth and they both sat back to see if she'd wake up.

Algy judged her at 5'4", though her full brown hair and slouched position later proved his undoing, when she stood and showed herself the same height as Biggles. She was dressed in baggy pants and a blouse which suggested she was preparing to leave- her hat lay nearby and her shoes were shod with the thick soles the aviators had lamented traversing the rock- strewn road that served as driveway to the house. As she stirred back into consciousness her lips parted, revealing them as somewhat on the full side, and when her eyes finally blinked he was almost disappointed to note their dull grey tone- he'd been half anticipating a lively green.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly, peering around at the two strangers in her kitchen, "what do you want?"

Biggles answered easily; "We were flying by and noticed what we thought was gunfire, so we dropped in to see what the fuss was all about. Do you think you're up to telling us?"

She nodded slowly, gingerly but with more confidence. Algy held back a grin- well he knew the wariness of a possibly woozy head.

"I think so. Do you mind if we sit down? And do you think you could make a cup of tea?" She faced Algy as she asked the second question and he nodded, giving Biggles an arch look as they passed in the doorway.

 

***

 

Ginger was elbows- deep in the fuselage of the Avro, connecting the all- important elevator cables and then double checking them. It wouldn't do for the plane to go down when it was supposed to go up, he thought, with a grin. Smyth and his other helpers were busy doing similar checks with aileron and rudder cables, and one man was quickly becoming covered in brake fluid.

Working on the rudder cables brought Smyth's head within reading distance of Ginger's watch and he did a double take. "Seems to me its lunchtime, gents!" he called.

It was only as Ginger was waiting to wash his hands that he realised there was still no sign of Algy and Biggles. Odd, when they were supposed to be back an hour ago. However the soup and bread which was their staple diet was too good, the companionship too merry, for him to worry more than an anxious glance outside to check the weather. Knowing them, they had run into an old friend and were even now sitting down to lunch, hoping that Ginger wouldn't mind.

Odd that they hadn't called, but then again maybe he'd just missed the message in the general hubbub.

 

***

 

"So my brother ran off to get the doctor and then I fainted, where I would have stayed had it not been for your kind help," the woman smiled, sipping the tea Algy had made and glancing coyly over her cup rim at Biggles.

The aviator remained oblivious to her intentions. "We were curious as to what would have made such a show that we could see it." he admitted frankly, "And now that the doctor is here"- the distinctive sounds of a car being parked outside on broken glass were heard- "we shall be on our way." They both stood and she smiled up at them, but fixed on Biggles.

"How can I hope to repay you?" she spoke with the same quickness Algy had noted before, and he wondered briefly if it was all to mask the pain her voice would otherwise hold.

"There's no need..." Biggles tried. Her eyes turned a little harder, though were quickly masked by a sort of put- on longing.

Thankfully the doctor stepped in before she further embarrassed herself. "Let me see the arm, miss. Did these men do the bandage? Very neat, very neat indeed. Thank you, I shall take over from here... You fed her tea, yes? And perhaps some brandy?" He finally paused to look at them and Algy shook his head.

"Sherry- we couldn't find the brandy. She had maybe a spoonful. And a cup of tea, of course. We'll leave you in the doctor’s capable hands." The last was delivered with a polite, if brisk, nod and the aviators swept up their hats and jackets before beginning the slog back to their plane.

"Ginger'll be going spare." Algy remarked, more to keep from worrying about his reaction to the clear flirtation with his cousin than because he really worried. They weren't that late and Smyth'd see the lad clear of any real trouble.

"Well, he won't be in about an hour." Biggles remarked. Then, suddenly, he stopped walking and faced Algy. Bemused, Algy stopped as well.

"What is it, then?" Bemusement turned to bewilderment as Biggles threw back his head and laughed, and then Algy joined in. They laughed for a good minute, solid, belly deep laughter.

As the noise died down, to the relief of the boys standing around the machine they were headed towards, they looked at each other. "You couldn't have come up with that story if you'd tried." grinned Biggles, turning to walk the last four hundred yards, leaving the road and striking out through the grass field.

"Not in a million years." Algy agreed, "did you see here sitting there struggling to ignore her arm enough that she could bat her eyelashes at you?"

"Sending you to make a cup of tea was pretty thick, I thought."

"I don't know- I thought her 'stumble' onto your 'manly chest' was thicker." Algy teased back.

"Are you suggesting my chest isn't manly?" Biggles retorted.

"It's as flat as a little girls." Algy assured him solemnly.

Still smiling they endured the badgering of a dozen small boys before shooing them off back to their homes for lunch.

 

***

 

Ginger's discussion with his companions about the relative merits of taking the Avro out now and finishing the cockpit work outside in the sun and fresher air was broken by the sound of another Avro coming in low on finals. They all turned to watch the machine come to a rolling standstill, settle onto the tail wheel and be carefully switched off. Two figures jumped out, one placing the chocks and the other tying the control column in place.

Together they walked towards the hanger, shedding jackets and helmets as they walked.

"Biggles! Algy! What'd you do- go to Scotland?" Ginger was all interest, all speculation.

"Not quite." Algy replied, setting down his flying kit and heading to the Avro in pride of place.

"Algy got distracted by some flashing lights, so we landed to take a look." began Biggles. "There was reason for alarm, though, I'll give him that." Briefly he outlined their spotting and entering the house. "So Algy came in like our own dear Mrs. Symes- though without the apron- and she told us the most extraordinary story."

Smyth and his remaining cohorts were listening now as well, making no bones about it. The only person who seemed more interested in the aeroplane than Biggles was Algy. It was usually like that between them.

"You can't stop there, sir!" Smyth protested.

Biggles smiled, "Never fear, Smyth. I was just gathering my thoughts." He considered a moment more then continued. "Her brothers' friend had stayed there last night, being in the area and passing through. He didn't think much of guns or shooting anything- even rabbits for the pot. Well, to prevent from upsetting him the brother- a keen hunter- decided to hide his guns somewhere. They were going to the pub for dinner and the sister wasn't to be home until around midnight, so he decided to put them the last place any man goes- the oven."

Understanding began to dawn on the listeners' faces.

"When she woke up this morning and wanted a hot lunch, she didn't check first, just lit the match and kept going about her business. By the time the brother realised what was going to happen it was almost too late. The ammunition went off, and she caught a bullet in the arm. The fireworks caught Algy's attention and we turned up a bit late to do anything but offer tea until the doctor came."

"So you haven't had lunch?" Ginger asked, hopefully.

"No, but I can see that you have. We'll go and fill up while you finish this off." Biggles gestured vaguely at the Avro and fished his wallet out of the coat he had slung next to Algy's. Reluctantly Algy stepped away from the almost- finished plane.

"There'll be more light to see inside if you take her outside." he smiled.

Smyth nodded. "As you say, sir, outside it is." he manfully suppressed any comment about their previous discussion.

 

***

 

"And how was your day today, Major?" Mrs. Symes asked, placing tea tray and tea things on the low sitting- room table and beginning the afternoon ritual of slaking their thirst.

Brought up below stairs in a household where social courtesies like addressing the eldest present first is expected, she didn't drop the habit unless under unusual circumstances. It had irked Ginger (on Algy's behalf) for about a week, until it had been explained to him. Now it was just another foible in their indomitable land-ladies personality.

"He was asked to get married." Ginger broke out. "By some girl who'd never met him before."

"Really, Major?" Mrs. Symes turned again to the upright figure sitting next to his cousin on the sofa.

"I'm rather afraid I was." he admitted ruefully, "She seemed to think I should move out and take up farming or something silly. I should have been watching out for Algy and the rescue plane from the moment I set foot in that place."

The land-lady shook her head, clearly unsure of the truth of the matter. "Would it make more sense if I knew why you were in her house in the first place?" she asked Algy plaintively. He shook his head dolefully and shrugged.

"I doubt it. It made hardly any sense to me, and I was there watching it all."

But they attempted to give a picture of what they had been doing- made far less clear with Ginger's eager interruptions.

"You mean to say they stored the guns in their oven?" She finally managed to clarify.

"Yup." Ginger nodded, "and then let the bullets go off. I bet it made a lovely mess." he added, in boyish eagerness of a fate he had yet to experience, and wouldn't enjoy the second time around.

"It's well known that women fall in love with their rescuers, Mr. Lacey," she pointed out, "That's probably all that attracted her to the Major. If you had been the lucky one to reach her first you would be the one awaiting liberation." Biggles raised an unseen eyebrow at a slur on his character, but breathed a sigh of relief none-the-less.

Ginger almost upset his teacup when he jolted his hands around instead of receiving the offered beverage. "You mean all I have to do to have a girl fall for me is rescue her from a tight spot?" he asked, incredulously. "That's swell; I thought there was a trick to it!"

Mrs. Symes looked worried, but Algy gestured to the seat next to the sofa. "Settle down and have a drink, Mrs. Symes. We'll worry about his madcap schemes later."

 And Biggles added to Ginger, "It helps if you aren't the one to get her in the tight spot to start with, boyo."

 

***

 

Algy has gone to stretch his legs, so he says, but Ginger has a fairly shrewd idea of where that walk will end him. It seems to be undertaken more often these days, although Algy has yet to develop the habit as Biggles has. The Tobacconists' is a good half hour round trip, providing the shop is experiencing at least some custom. Biggles, proving Ginger correct, is seated in front of the fire, magazine in one hand, cigarette in the other.

If Algy were here he'd make some joke about the smoke from the gasper being, in fact, Biggles' mind overheating. Ginger contemplates it, but decides it would fall horribly flat so withholds that particular jest for another day.

"Would you really wait for Algy to rescue you from marriage?" he asks instead, glancing up from his paste and paper creation.

Biggles frowns a little, but answers readily enough. "Of course. Do you think I want to get married into a family hell-bent on destruction like that one clearly was?"

"What if he wouldn't come and rescue you?" Ginger asks, impertinently cocking his head to one side like a small bird.

"If you think that Algy would let me stew in such a horrid position, you clearly aren't the same Ginger who’s been creating havoc here for months." Biggles teases gently. "What have you done with the real Hebblethwaite, hmm?"

"I haven't done anything!" Ginger complains indignantly, "No one else could hope to be the same as my own amazing self." He affects a heroic posture and almost upsets the glue. Biggles' lip twitches slightly.

"But what if he was to be married too, then would you still want him to rescue you? Carry you away to his snug little love nest?" Ginger’s face tries to contort itself into what Biggles can only assume is a soppy expression. It's hard to tell with the eyes so wide and the tongue lolling out. It could be a dead- mans- head.

If Biggles is puzzled why this line of inquiry is being continued so doggedly, he doesn't show it anymore. No doubt he is used to strange boys asking strange questions. "A choice between being married and living with my friend, who lets me carry on as I like? Hardly a competition, Ginger, is it?"

"Algy’s married, though." Ginger reminds him.

Biggles shudders.

"I hardly see that happening. You forget how many offers he's already turned down- many of them lucrative in more than just female."

"But if he _was_ " Ginger insists, pleased to find a topic in which he can get Biggles' full attention which doesn't involve defeating gravity all the time.

"If he was" Biggles says, though his smile clearly shows how ridiculous he finds the idea, "If he _was_ , as you say, then of course I would still fly off with him."

Ginger nods. "That's exactly what I thought. You need to get over women, you know. They aren't that scary." The worldliness of a seventeen year old is in the statement, and Biggles nods gravely.

"Even so, I still might take your word for it, if you don't mind. No sense in tempting fate, is there?"

 

***

 

If anyone noticed Ginger was a little pale the next morning, it wasn't commented on. He often did appear pale under his shock of hair, especially early in the morning half-light. Had they asked he didn't think he could have told them the truth. He tried it out in his mind as he walked to work and found it lacking in focus as to why it prevented his sleep.

 _Biggles, for some reason looking very feminine and wearing a white dress, was at the top of a tower. Algy, equally oddly dressed in his penguin suit and flying a Sopwith Camel, soared in, set the trim and jumped off the wing tip, while the Camel waited (he didn't question that. must be a mix up with Sikorsky). Biggles settled in Algy's arms, they stepped back along the lower wing, then clambered into the suddenly larger cockpit._

He put it down to his plans to seduce a female by saving her life but spent that evening wondering why they sat next to each other when there was a perfectly good chair almost as close to the fire.

 

***

 

Biggles didn't noticed Ginger was pale that morning because he was feeling a little off- colour himself. He hadn't had any trouble going to sleep, but had then had trouble waking. Rather, waking at the wrong time. Occasionally they still suffered the effects of years of war; occasionally they dragged each other out of bed by noise alone.

So when he woke to find everything silent, James paused and wondered what had woken him. The noises of their rooms- snuffling and deep breathing, the tick of the clock- were overlaid with the sounds of London nightlife.

Clearly it wasn't a noise, then.

As he lay there thinking about something else, the thought that had woken him (and been startled by it) slid back into his mind again. "Algy". James breathed.

The night remained as unlistening as ever, and he flopped in his too- big bed wearily.

 

***

 

Mrs. Symes hummed a ditty as she set the just- boiled kettle back in its place in her tidy kitchen. The outrageous story that she had heard yesterday afternoon was still in her mind. There was no doubt they were telling the truth- even Ginger couldn't have that much of an imagination!

It was a sign, she'd decided over cocoa last night, that she was feeling more and more involved in their lives. After all, if she'd had that discussion with them a year ago, she would have called all her friends around her today and be ready to tell it. Now, well, if it came into conversation it would be talked about, but otherwise she'd not remark on it.

Remarkable, the change Mr. Lacey and then Ginger had wrought on her previously quiet bachelor pad.

For starters, there were fewer evenings when she prepared dinner only to find the Major intended to be 'out', fewer mornings when she stepped lightly up the stairs in deference to a possible morning head to find he had yet to return, fewer days when she would try and stretch breakfast for one into lunch for two just woken aviators.

With a competent movement she balanced tray and door, treading lightly in a conscious deference to the drawn looking face of the Major at breakfast this morning. He may, unlikely though it was, have decided to return to bed. At the very least it was unlikely he'd be appreciative of any noise.

Again, she heard him speak as she approached the door and paused, just long enough to catch the words, "Algy, so you see...oh by my sainted aunts' anti clockwise bally propeller, this is ridiculous!" before she knocked and entered as bid.

There was no-one else in the room and she blinked. "Talking to yourself, Major? First sign of insanity, so they say."

"Well, they may lock me up if they want to, Mrs. Symes." the major responded dolefully, "For I see I've forgotten to do the decent thing and inform you Algy isn't here for lunch."

"Not to worry, Major. I'll just pop it back in the safe and he can have it if he's back before tea. I'll wager Master Ginger won't mind having it should he be back in time to scrounge it off me, either." She smiled unconcernedly and was pleased when there was a small answering smile from the man in front of her.

Banking on the burgeoning friendship she asked, more slowly, "Is there anything else I can do for you, Major?"

He looked about distractedly before shaking his head. "I don't think there's anything you can do, Mrs. Symes. I'm just a bit stuck in my thoughts this morning- maybe I'll go for a walk after lunch."

She nodded and was opening the door before he said, "Actually, Mrs. Symes, have you begun dinner yet?"

Puzzled, she responded, "no" truthfully enough- it was to be some sort of fish that she had yet to purchase.

"I wonder if you could do me a favour and change the menu then?" His nose wrinkled a little in concern as he expanded, "Algy's been a bit down lately- nothing serious but I rather hope a couple of his favourite dishes might aid him out of his funk."

It was well known that only Ginger took the place of Mrs. Symes' son, if there was one appeal that Mrs. Symes would respond to it was this- perhaps that was why Biggles had used it.

"Of course I can, Major. I will serve at the usual time then? Or perhaps a little later?"

"Earlier, if at all possible, Mrs. Symes. We may be going out tonight, as well." Still looking a little troubled, he nevertheless smiled at her as she exited the room.

 

***

 

Returning from his walk, Biggles was greeted at the doorstep by a hand-wringing, haggard- approaching Mrs. Symes.

"What is it?" Biggles asked crisply, pushing away the constantly- present fear that something had gone wrong with Ginger or- far worse, this one- that Algy had been hurt in some way.

"It's Mr. Lacey, Major." Mrs. Symes trembled, destroying James' heart in four simple words, "You were out so I took the call and..." she sensed she was babbling and pulled herself more upright, striving for coherency.

Biggles stayed upright and steady through immeasurable will power.

Strange images flickered through his brain- small fingers moving sure and delicate over a keyboard; feet dangling a foot from the floor as their owner waited to be dismissed; a lanky, scruffy boy approaching him eagerly in France, "It's Biggles, isn't it? I recognised you from the photo at home...."

He tried to hear what Mrs. Symes was saying.

"They're going to bring him around here- there's little more they can do in a hospital than here and this is far more convenient for the specialist, and there are plenty of distractions. They need distractions in these cases, of course."

"Of course." he replied, through numb lips. Through some stretching of will power he made his way steadily up the stairs and through to their rooms. "What arrangements will be necessary?" he asked, "will we make up the sofa, or will he go straight to bed?"

Mrs. Symes shook her head, "I don't know, Major. There wasn't time to ask. Both are ready, in any case." she paused then said, clearly thankful she had something to do, "I shall make a cup of tea."

He nodded her off, absently. Waiting was the worst bit, and those broken images came back.

Algy, running up to a shot up Camel; Algy, peering out from under a blanket to wonder what was happening; holding him warm and tight as the screaming terrors of the night left him; crowding in close to look over his shoulder. Algy in all manner of positions, smiling, laughing, grim- faced and silent, but always near Biggles, always reminding Biggles of his own futile hope. Hope that was fast becoming crystallised thanks to the impertinent questioning of a seventeen year old boy Algy had convinced him to let stay.

James wondered when his life had started revolving around Algy.

 

When the door opened he started, turned and stared uncomprehendingly at the figure carried in by two burly men. With a sadly- experienced mind leap he pulled himself back to officiating, gesturing to the bedroom. "He'll be most comfortable in here." Having laid their precious charge in the bed and covered him, the men (strangers to Biggles) smiled at the offer of tea Biggles extended to them on Mrs. Symes' behalf.

Having checked the bedcovers were snug around the still unconscious figure, he followed the men downstairs with heavy tread.

"Major, you look a little peaky. Will you join us for a cuppa?" With people to fuss over and something definite to do, Mrs. Symes seemed to have calmed down a great deal. The same could not be said for Biggles, whose lips were compressed in a face familiar only to those who had flown with him in wartime.

His response was clipped, "No thank you, Mrs. Symes. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Lacey though?"

Algy rose from his perch, placed the tea cup down neatly on its saucer and nodded at the two men. "Thank you, gents. Here, I hope this expresses some of my gratitude." They smiled broad grins at the coin Algy gave each of them and said their good-byes. The cousins stepped out into the hall way.

"Do I need to put my coat on?" asked Algy quietly. He could tell that Biggles was about to get communicative, perhaps loudly so, and he didn't want everyone to hear.

"There's no need to step outside." Biggles assured him, "I'm perfectly capable of moderating my voice." indeed, his voice was so low, so chilled, that Algy almost had to strain to hear it. Nevertheless they moved to the stairway, half way between the two points they wanted to be wary of.

Algy faced Biggles squarely, arms loosely by his sides, eyes searching for why his cousin, his closest friend, was standing angrily in front of him, worked up with a head of steam large enough to leave the _Cheltenham Flyer_ in the dust. He was still searching when chilled hands groped for his, pulling them up to close between their chests.

"I thought that was you." The intense voice said quietly, "I came back from a walk and thought that you'd been in another crash and were being brought back here to die. Then, when Ginger was carried in with nothing more than a bump" Algy had the good sense not to point out that a hit on the head from an omnibus was more than a bump, "I was glad it wasn't you. I felt like the lowest form of life. What man is glad someone else has been hurt?"

Algy, sensing a confession he didn't expect to hear, had never more than hoped to hear one lonely night in France, remained silent.

James Bigglesworth glared at him fiercely. "Don't you ever do that to me again, Algernon. That's twice I've thought you dead in the last fortnight, and it's more than a man has any need to bear. Never again, you hear?" Suddenly warm arms were around him, for only moments, before the full force of what was happening sunk in.

As soon as he realised that his closest friend was hugging him, on the stairs to their rooms, in full view of any casual passer-by, Algy stiffened.

As soon as he realised that he was hugging his closest friend, who had suddenly grown uncomfortably still in his arms, James stepped away, letting his arms drop. Surprise, shock or distaste? He peered up into distant brown eyes, which blinked at him, once, before turning away.

Algy followed his release in short order by walking out of the front door and down the street. He didn’t ever bother to collect his coat.

 

***

 

"He should be awake soon."

"He already is, he's waiting for breakfast before he opens his eyes."

"No he's not; he's waiting for a drink before he talks."

The voices were hushed though happy sounding. They were curiously far away, then in a rushing sort of way they came close. With a great effort, Ginger blinked open his eyes.

"Told you." said one of them, "Here you go, lad." A cup was proffered and Ginger squinted at it, then struggled onto his elbows. Sure hands held him up and he drank, spluttered and drank again. Feeling more himself he settled against the headboard and looked around.

Algy and Biggles sat side by side on his bed, Algy leaning back after putting down the cup.

"How'd I..."

"Two of your companions brought you here, after consultation with a passing doctor. How are you feeling? Ready for breakfast?"

Ginger hastily changed his nod into a vocal affirmative and Biggles slipped off to bestir Mrs. Symes.

"He alright?" Ginger asked hesitantly, "seemed a bit...annoyed" His voice was getting stronger and Algy smiled gently.

"You gave us both a fright, that's all. He was out when I rang through and I gather Mrs. Symes wasn't very clear regards details. But he'll be happier once you've eaten some breakfast and feel better, don't you worry. And if he's not, well, I'm sure we can think of something."

Ginger smiled back, pacified. "I'm sure we can."

 

***

 

"You do have your own plate of food, Ginger." Biggles reprimanded the boy, fending off a questing fork.

"I did." Ginger corrected him, "Past tense. Algy's got hollow legs." to prove his point he tapped the shin bone of the man, earning him a sour look.

"When you're better there'll be a reckoning." Algy grumbled, turning to Biggles. "The only person with hollow legs is ole hollow- head here. Anyone else, on being knocked for six by a London bus, would still be in bed. This one's up and about like nobody's business." He paused then added, "Do you think there's money in that?"

"You mean we could hire him out to the travelling circus? Sort of on commission?" Biggles clarified, giving up on retaining his meal.

"Exactly. Or we could scrap the commission. I've always wanted to do stunt flying- it could be fun!"

"Or it could get you killed." Biggles added, before smiling, "I'm not hearing the boy complain. Maybe it's time for greener pastures. Run away to the circus like you should have as a boy."

Ginger waited for a break in the banter, which seemed a long time in coming. They were back to being the seamless couple- not a partnership between older and younger relations, or older flyer and young upstart but two minds with a single thought. He's seen few marriages this harmonious.

"Am I allowed a say in my own fate?" he squawked, having swallowed a far-too-big slice of bacon.

"Don't you want to be hit on the head by all and sundry?" asked Algy, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Not really, no. I'll hit you over the head with a bus, see how you like it."

"I think Algy’ll need reminding- he's had plenty of planes land on top of him in his time and they’ve clearly hurt his memory." Biggles agreed.

“Are you abandoning me, Biggles?” Algy queried, sounding dismayed.

Any reply or further conversation was halted by Mrs. Symes wanting to clear their plates and inquire after 'poor master Ginger' and his head.

"There's nothing wrong with it apart from its propensity to meeting busses." Biggles commented, while Algy expanded, "and its ability to remain attached to his shoulders."

"Now now, gentlemen. Just because you don't have some lovely flowers from a young lady, and a nice set of cards from concerned friends doesn't mean you have to get uppity." Mrs. Symes smiled, pausing at the door. “I shall see you all for lunch, and dinner.” She continued, then with a glance at Biggles she added, “Particularly dinner. The Major’s plans were interrupted and we’ll have that meal tonight instead, won’t we, Major?”

Biggles nodded dumbly, aware of two sets of eyes on him. “Indeed we will, Mrs. Symes, indeed we will.”

Ginger was the first to speak, as usual abusing that position by saying something reprehensible. “You might have told us about you and Mrs. Symes, Biggles.”

Biggles looked from Ginger to Algy- whose handkerchief was rapidly being stuffed into his mouth in an effort to stop the laughter his shoulders were shaking with. “Algy, old boy, quit your sniggering and help me out!” Biggles appealed.

Algy shook his head stubbornly although he did remove the handkerchief. “You did rather bring it upon yourself, you know.” He commented, “what with closeting yourself away with her and arranging a special meal.”

Biggles frowned, “Whose side are you on, then?” he demanded.

“The side of justice and truth.” Intoned Ginger, falling onto the table in a fit of laughter.

“The side that will get me the most food, more like.” Algy returned, “Since you stole all of mine.”

“Oh come off it, Algy. You know there’ll never be anything between our lovely housekeeper and myself.” Biggles pleaded, suddenly serious eyes fixing Algy’s.

The younger man shrugged, then turned to Ginger, “dost think he doth protest too much? Note how lovely she is in his eyes.”

“Are you going all academic on me again?” Ginger asked suspiciously, “That sounds clever....my head’s far too sore to translate any of your blasted Shakespeare.” When Algy opened his mouth he added quickly, “Our blasted Shakespeare....and I agree, he does sound suspiciously concerned about the matter, doesn’t he.”

Biggles quickly stepped in. “If your head is sore, Ginger, maybe you should lay it down somewhere...after all you wouldn’t want it to get accidentally knocked, would you?”

Ginger scarpered.

 

***

 

“That was all a joke.” Biggles opens with, leaning against Algy’s bedroom door.

“I know.” The man acknowledges, looking at two different ties and trying to decide between them. “I always assume that you and love is a bit of a joke, after Janis. Healthy scepticism and all that.” He selects a tan tie with gold lozenges, flicking up his collar as he walks towards the mirror.

“It always has been.” Biggles acknowledges carefully, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he remains leaning against the wood, “Because women are far more expendable.”

Algy has tied the tie and is now untying it, deeming it untidy. He wants to say ‘how can you even suggest that men are anything but expendable, after France, after Egypt?’ because although it’s dangerous ground, painful ground, its one he can navigate far more easily than any heart. He can always navigate minefields more easily than human hearts, as evidenced by his bachelor-state and survival. Instead he says, “Because you have a vested interest in men?” and rests his own fingers lightly against his collar bones, feeling his pulse.

“Only in some.” The reply is guarded and Algy looks back at him, and then glances away.

“You can see where I’m coming from, can’t you?” he asks instead, tie briskly tied and settled in his collar. “I mean, how many happily married couples do I know?” Now his jacket goes on, coupled with one more ineffectual pat at his unruly hair, and he presents himself in front of the man guarding his door.

Algy, James decides in that moment, shall not be allowed to wear that tie outside again, if they ever get over this sparring.

It draws far too much attention to his guileless seeming eyes, his arching eyebrows and....he pulls himself up to finish he thought, than a strip of material has any right to. He realises Algy is looking at him, bemused and a little doubtful, waiting for him to move aside.

His mouth moves without his permission, “there could never be anything between Mrs. Symes and myself because of you, Algy Lacey.” And he follows Ginger’s lead from hours ago and scarpers.

 

It takes a full two minutes before he hears the door slam and Algy’s steps descending.

 

***

 

Biggles is dragged from his stupor by the incessant shrill of the telephone and his nerves give a painful twang. What if it’s a stranger, calling up about Algy being bumped on the head like Ginger? Algy has escaped death more times than anyone Biggles knows but Biggles himself, but there’s plenty of men have walked away from a crash only to get killed by a stray transport.

Steeling himself he picks up the receiver and is both pleased and more worried when he hears Algy’s voice. “Forgot your marbles?” he teases in greeting.

“Oh do give a fellow a break, there’s a good boy.” Algy responds, “I was actually just ringing up to check on Ginger. There’s a pharmacist next door to the club, I wondered if he wanted anything.”

“I’m sure he can think of dozens of things.” Biggles replies, “Stay where you are, I’ll go and ask him.”

Ginger is sprawled on his bed in pants and shirtsleeves, one socked foot half off the bed. He appears rumpled and hot even from the doorway and Biggles opens the window before resting a hand lightly on the shirted shoulder. He was right- Ginger is warm to the touch. Bleary eyes blink at him and finally settle in focus, though the body remains lying on the bed, propped up on skinny elbows.

“Algy’s on the ‘phone. He wants to know if he can get you anything from the pharmacy.” Biggles explains over the sound of a taxi horn.

“Gurgnkh.” Ginger responds groggily.

“They’re well stocked, but I doubt they’re that well stocked.” Biggles’ smile is not lost on Ginger.

“Some of that headache stuff.” He grinds out, “and maybe some of those cough lozenges? My throat is tickly.”

“Those lollies that rot your teeth? What’s wrong with cough syrup?”

“Cough syrup doesn’t work as well.” Ginger assures him, solemnly, “and Algy’ll be waiting for you, so you’d better go and put him out of his misery.”

Biggles nods, ruffles Gingers’ hair, and leaves.

 

“He had a list a mile long.” Biggles explains, “But we settled on headache powder and those disgusting cough lozenges he likes so much.”

Algy’s amusement is clear, even over the club phone. “Such moderation! I’ll see you at lunch then.”

 “It’s becoming in one so young.” Biggles agrees, “I’ll see you then.”

Algy responds without thinking, “take care,” and has hung up before he’s realised what he’s said.

Take care? His mind trying to tell him something? He stands lost in thought for so long at the pharmacy that he is asked twice if help can be obtained for him. Glumly he purchases the powder and lozenges and continues.

Is this really what it feels like to be in love? It’s not a feeling he is sure deserves everything that is written about it. What happens when James (Algy still thinks of him as James sometimes, like he was that one night when there were no Bigglesworths left on earth, only a lost boy with men twice his age looking to him for advice) gets sick of his boring younger cousin? And why after a year of living together following years of living out of each others’ pockets has this been brought up now? It’s not the first time they’ve been thought of as dead to each other after all. Combined, they’ve come back from certain death more times than he can count, and each time has added years to his life. Will loving him change any of that? Or will he finally find himself where Ginger thinks he is already- under James’ thumb, wrapped around his little finger?

 

***

 

 _"Don't you ever do that to me again, Algernon. That's twice I've thought you dead in the last fortnight, and it's more than a man has any need to bear. Never again, you hear?" Algy stares at him then walks out of the door, not even stopping for his coat._

 

James sits up, frustrated. His sleep has been upset yet again. Tonight he thought it was just the dream- replay- of painful rejection which had woken him, when he heard footsteps. They were soft, moving through the living room. Carefully, he slid feet into slippers and stood, sliding on his dressing gown. Who on earths was barging about their home? Wary, he cast his eyes about the dimly lit room and settled on arming himself with an umbrella. There never had seemed any need to keep anything more dangerous in his room before, though he thought now that might change.

‘Alright, let’s go and see what’s happening out there’ he mutters to himself. As silently as the just- audible intruder he crept down the hallway, pausing briefly at Algy’s doorway. There, he decided to just open the door, not wake the man. Time was of the essence. Finally he paused to survey the living rom.

Kneeling on the floor, rummaging through a bag Biggles realised was the one Algy had brought back from the club, was Ginger. Feeling slightly foolish, Biggles propped the umbrella up against the wall and cleared his throat.

“Looking for some relief from your thick head, are you?” he asked.

Ginger started and turned, “Biggles! What are you doing up?” standing he put a hand to his head, clearly suffering vertigo.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Biggles returned shortly, “Are you looking for that powder?”

Ginger went to nod then seemed to think better of it. “Yes. He only gave me a spoonful. Do you know where it is?”

Biggles nodded and went to the mantelpiece, “He put it up here. Have some then off to bed with you. Sleep cures all ills, so they say.”

Ginger obediently swallowed it and smiled wanly. “So they do. Sleep well.” and mooched off to his room.

Biggles watched him go and then picked up his umbrella to follow. Again he paused outside Algy’s room, checking to see if the man was awake.

 

It is early in the morning- early enough that only city lights shone through a careless chink in the curtains. Algy, Biggles remembered, had insisted on light-weight curtains. “I’m sick of thick black ones.” He’d declared, holding up cheerful green fabric instead. Mrs. Symes had had them up in a week. Biggles had never brought himself to ask if the extra light was what helped Algy not wake them all up with the screaming ab-dabs.

Standing watching Algy sleep, the pilot had to sigh. They were as close as ever and yet Algy had made it clear they would never...”stop staring at me” grumbled Algy, “Do you need me to tuck you in then?”

Biggles moved to hover near the bed as Algy drew himself up, looking absurdly tousled. “He wanted some more of that powder. Did I wake you?”

Algy shook his head, making his hair lie even more unruly across his pate, “No, not at all. I was woken by Ginger going for a rummage in the cupboard next door.” He peered at his watch, “And I won’t be getting any sleep, I see. Not long until dawn.”

Biggles smiled, unseen in the quarter-light. “Isn’t it a little early for me to tease you about your sleeping habits?”

Algy pulled a face, as if to say ‘It’s never stopped you before’. “You, no doubt, will get a full forty winks in. I am going to be productive.” He looked around like a fledgling bird, confused.

Biggles spoke without thinking, “I couldn’t sleep anyway. Do you want anything special for breakfast?”

With alacrity, Algy nodded, “Always. I’ll meet you as soon as you’re dressed.”

 

***

 

They were meandering down towards the bakery together when Biggles voiced another of the fears that were impeaching on their home. “Ginger will be fine, won’t he?”

Algy playfully cuffed him around the head, “As hard headed as you in a couple days, I’m sure.”

Biggles ducked a moment too late and glared, “Be serious for once,” he complained. There was a moment of consideration, a moment while Algy stared at his feet and navigated them around the gaps in the pavement.

“He’ll be fine. There’s nothing wrong with him apart from a bump on the head, as you well know. The doctor’s taken a look at him and declared him so, apart from any other proof which we may have been provided with yesterday- today!”

Biggles’ lips twitched, “That’s true.” They walked in silence until the corner then Biggles added sincerely, “Thanks, old boy.”

 

Yeast and hot ovens created a smell which wound its way into their heads. It was a smell that had been with them from childhood, signalling the time to pause in their play or (heaven forbid) work. Without consultation they continued to their left, following their noses. This was where Mrs. Symes bought the bread which fed them toast and sandwiches and where Ginger bought an occasional Eccles cake on his way home with friends. Usually Biggles was happy to let Mrs Symes run their household and as such he (and by extension Algy) didn’t set foot in the bakery. However in recent weeks the warm smell of baking with no questions or obligations had spoken to Biggles’ sense of need. Sometimes he’d spluttered from Ginger’s glances as they both collected Algy’s favoured pastry. That may have had something to do with their strained relations- a feeling they were faster becoming equals than Biggles was ready for. The brick facade and scuffed steps leading through the wood and glass door were comforting friends by now for him and they stepped along to the welcoming area with friendly steps.

“What do you want for breakfast, Algy? My shout.” They shared a smile as Biggles added, “It is, after all, me who actually got you up.” Brown eyebrows raise a fraction and a smile lurks about a fulsome mouth for a moment, before Algy slips inside the shop, touching Biggles’ arm where it holds the door open.

James doesn’t think he did it on purpose.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling his buried hope from sprouting. It was moments like that when what he had been doing almost from habit (the little gestures, the touches, the speeches to prove his points) started seeming to have hope again, to have reason. It’s always like this. He just thinks that he’s got over the need for an instant response, that he has just decided that he will be able to deal with Algy’s prevaricating, being a friend and a good one but nothing more, when Algy goes and does something like telling him to ‘take care’, or touching him gently, caringly, without seemingly thinking about it.

“I can’t face Eccles cakes for breakfast any more.” Algy admits with a small, self deprecating smile. “Maybe some fruit bread instead?”

Biggles nods. “I’m surprised you could ever face an Eccles cake for breakfast,” He comments, with all the blitheness of one who didn’t grow up with them as an occasional treat. They don’t get good enough currents in India. ‘Oh yes, hot and crisp, and a little bit buttery still....” Algy rambles on a little until Biggles has to step forwards and be served, when he apparently comes to himself due to the lack of warmth.

The baker smiles at them both, though a little longer (Biggles tells himself it isn’t more longingly) at the younger man. “You’ll have to come around one Sunday, sir, when they’re just as fresh as you can have them.”

Algy nods and Biggles manages to put his order in for the raisin bread and receive it without any more need to tamp down his burgeoning emotion.

All that flying clearly turned Algy into a yo-yo.

 

The two men walk back along the street then dive into Berkeley Square opposite Hill street. The sun is doing what it so frequently does in London- losing a battle with clouds and pollutant. Nevertheless it is obviously in attendance and they walk more slowly when they are on the grass.

Algy is carrying the bread and he can feel its warmth still dissipating through his torso. The light breeze lopes through his hair and Biggles’, tousling it up so it almost touches, they are so close. Algy shifts to the left as he goes to bypass a bench just as Biggles moves to his right. For a moment they almost brush up against each other, but the symmetry they have developed as pilots together acts against his forlorn hope.

“Tell you what, that headache powder has a sort of somnolent effect, doesn’t it?” he asks thoughtfully, eyeing up the bench they’ve just navigated.

“If you’re thinking we should...”

“You thought the same thing!”

“I at least had the decency to keep it in my mind.”

“And now it’s out, you’ll have the decency to hand over the bread. I know it’s still warm...I can smell it.”

One lip quirks up, transforming the graven lines of war into a curled message Algy long ago gave up decoding. “A good argument.” He says instead, passing over the bag and sitting down next to his friend.

 

They sit like that, talking of this and that, or not talking at all (they neither of them have always felt the need for noise, but it has become more necessary after the war) and occasionally partaking of the excellent slices of bread they have liberated. The subject of Ginger and work comes up, but Biggles is suspiciously reticent about expounding his theory regarding socialising. Algy doesn’t comment on it, but he does realise (afterwards) that it’s out of character behaviour.

Finally, when the fourth dog-walker passes them, Algy stands. “An excellent breakfast thank you, Biggles. But we should probably go and assure Ginger we’re still about.” They follow Davies street around to the left, Algy enduring the usual jibe about the barber and himself, and turn onto Mount street.

“No smoke coming out of the windows” Algy remarks, “always a good sign.”

Biggles glowers at his idea of a joke, but can’t stay angry for long when there’s a modicum of truth in the jibe. Instead he holds the door open for his friend and Algy thanks him with a smile as he unbuttons his coat.

“Still chilly enough, even with the sun.” Biggles agrees to the unspoken comment.

“Hullo! What’s this?” A coat rather different to the usual ones used to keep the coat stand employed is hanging in front of them.

“Female, and not particularly expensive” Algy observes dryly, “Something Ginger needs to tell us, d’you think?” He’s stopped making jests about Biggles’ love life and Biggles is grateful for it.

“We could ask Mrs Symes” he suggests in return, and leads the march to that redoubtable lady’s office. They are forestalled by the woman herself opening her door and smiling at them mischievously. “A lady to see you, Major.” She greets them, “and very keen she was, too.”

Biggles feels his face go pale. A lady? A lady!

“She didn’t have a bandaged arm did she?” Algy asks shrewdly, while Biggles stands stymied next to him.

“So you do know her then.” Mrs. Symes smiles, “why haven’t I seen her before?”

“She was the one we told you about, with the gun in the oven.” Algy explains, enunciating clearly.

Wouldn’t do to get ‘gun’ mixed up with ‘bun’. Not here. Not now.

“Well she’s waiting next door, if you want her to step up.” Mrs Symes’ air has become a touch more wary, and Algy is pleased he won’t be alone in trying to throw this woman out as quickly as it won’t be rude.

“I suppose we’d better.” Biggles sighs, “would you bring her up and I’ll go and check on Ginger, Algy?” He doesn’t add a please, but it’s there in his body and one so attuned to him can read it easily.

Algy nods. “Of course I will. I’ll see you in five minutes.” Biggles claps him on the shoulder and nods to Mrs Symes.

 “Should I be preparing for a migration, Mr Lacey?” Mrs. Symes asks, half in jest.

“What, Biggles leaving? I shouldn’t think so, Mrs. Symes. She’s not really his type, I don’t think.” They consider this for a moment then Algy nods and goes to hunt down their interloper.

Glumly, he knocks and enters (in his own house!) and pastes a smile on his face. “Good morning! I’m Algernon Lacey, I brought the towels and the drink and all that.”

Her rich hair is tidily swept up now, and she’s wearing a fresh blouse but he recognises the trousers she was wearing previously. Her voice gets quicker as she talks. “Mr. Lacey. Yes, you brought me tea. I very much appreciated it. I’m Daisy Puttock, I don’t think we ever fully introduced ourselves?” She offered her uninjured hand and Algy forced himself to do the decent thing and shake it before resting it on his arm with a light inclination of his head.

“I’m pleased to meet you again Miss Puttock. Will you come up to our rooms?” She nodded and followed him docilely.

“Major Bigglesworth- I don’t know how much Mrs. Symes told you?” he asks by way of a filler as they walk- slowly- towards their sanctuary.

“Mrs. Symes is a great admirer of the Major, I gathered.” Miss Puttock opens with, then with a girlish laugh, “I had no idea I was being rescued by such a high- ranking officer!”

Algy swallows down a comment and smiles instead. “He doesn’t talk about it much.” He warns instead.

“Oh I rather got that impression from Mrs. Symes.” Daisy chatters, “But it was so brave of him- damaged by war and wary of gunfire- to walk into what he must have thought was a gunfight.”

She babbles away and Algy gets more and more pent up. It happens sometimes, when they chatter about Biggles.

He’s a _major,_ he’s had his _heart_ torn out, he’s _lost_ _friends_ and he’s shot down more enemy aircraft than.... he’s been there and done that and got the medals to prove it.

Algy, of course, is nothing.

Her chattering is cut short when he stops walking and gently disengages her arm to open the door. “I think you will meet our third room-mate only in passing.” He commented, ushering her through and revealing an almost spotless lounge area.

Besmirching the just-cleared hard backed chair that usually held their magazines, was Ginger, tying his laces and reading the last of this month’s Flyer while he did so. “Ginger, meet Miss Puttock, the unfortunate victim of her brothers cooking. Miss Puttock, Ginger Hebblethwaite, who is currently running late.”

Ginger finished his preparations more quickly now that he wasn’t distracted by reading, and shook her hand on the way out. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.” He aimed a glare at Algy from behind her back and Algy shrugged minutely.

Ginger _was_ running late, and there _wasn’t_ any way to get rid of this woman short of showing her to Biggles.

He deposited the interloper on the lounge chair that Ginger usually used in the evening and hastened down to Biggles’ room.

His friend is standing indecisively at his bureau, fiddling with a scrap of paper. Algy waits deferentially at the door for a moment before they head back to interview the lady together. He falters at his own room, tempted to go in there and skulk, but a panicked, pleading look comes over his companions face and he allows himself to be shuffled along to their lounge.

This is what had Biggles scared, not death, but women. They’re a terrible generation. Able to kill and be killed, but not to live. Able to betray without loving. He hated days like this, that started so well and ended with

“...war?” she smiled, “didn’t you Major?”

The two men fall into the pattern of deferral they perfected almost ten years ago when thinking about war was even more painful than it was now. This is how they have always operated, by choice, and this is how they will keep operating. Together. They finally turf her out (Thankfully unattached to Biggles or his conscience) just before lunch, which they take at the club.

Neither wants to breath in any more of her obnoxious perfume for a moment more but not eating seems like a problem, given how drained they are both feeling. Sitting in the RAF club surrounded by old friends and flyers provides them both with much needed perspective.

Biggles only once considers the man across the table from him in a wistful fashion, and stamps on that by ringing up Mrs Symes between the courses and reorganising the dinner they’d had to postpone during the debacle of Ginger and the omnibus.

The only thing he says to Algy that he doesn’t say to any other man that meal is, “You’ll be home for dinner won’t you?” This allusion to their rooming together perhaps explains why the lines on his face relax when the two are talking.

Algy replies with a smiling nod and all is well for the rest of the afternoon.

 

***

 

Mrs. Symes cooks exceedingly well. So well that they take their time over the delicacies and relax luxuriously for a good hour afterwards, listening to some music and throwing out the occasional banter.

Ginger finally bows to the need to take some headache powder and get some more rest, and leaves the two men sitting at opposite ends of their sofa, legs stretched out before them. Biggles is hopeful there’ll be no hard feelings when he broaches the subject again. Except it is not to be. They both start yawning soon after Ginger has left and stand almost simultaneously.

Algy tidies the gramophone, Biggles the fire, and they slip into their respective beds in almost perfect synchronisation.

 

 _"Don't you ever do that to me again, Algernon. That's twice I've thought you dead in the last fortnight, and it's more than a man has any need to bear. Never again, you hear?" Algy stares at him then walks out of the door, not even stopping for his coat._

 

James sits up, frustrated. His sleep has been upset yet again. Tonight he thought it was just the dream- replay- of painful rejection which had woken him, when he heard footsteps. They were soft, moving through the living room. Carefully, he slides feet into slippers and stood, sliding on his dressing gown. Who on earths was barging about their home? Wary, he cast his eyes about the dimly lit room before remembering they are currently harbouring a cosseted, headache-y boy.

‘Alright, let’s go and see what’s happening out there’ he mutters to himself. As silently as the just- audible bumbling boy he crept down the hallway, pausing briefly at Algy’s doorway. There, he again just opens the door.

Finally he paused to survey the living rom. “Looking for some relief from your thick head, are you?” he asked the figure who is this time concentrating his searching on the small packets left on top of the mantelpiece.

Ginger started and turned, “Biggles! What are you doing up?” turning he blinked as if dizzy.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Biggles returned shortly, “Are you looking for that powder again?”

Ginger held up the package with a slight grimace. “Algy’s worried that I’ll take the wrong thing unless I’m actually upright and looking at it. So he makes me keep it out here. I didn’t mean to get you up... I’ll see you later then.”

Biggles nodded and let him go before following him, again stopping at Algy’s door.

“We need to work out this lack of sleep, you know.” Algy says, voice rough with sleep and a tad hoarse around the edges.

“I hardly think there’s anything more that can be said, Algy.” But he steps inside the mostly dark room anyway and perches on the bed. “You know as well as I do that there was a war. And during that war, people did things that they had no right to....”

“What about when you say my name?” Algy interrupts, “because you never used to do that.” He doesn’t mention that one cold night in France, but then neither does the man on his bed, so maybe they have both forgotten.

There’s a pause while cogs whir in James’ brain. Whatever he says will just open him up for more rejection. But then, there isn’t much more that he can say which Algy hasn’t heard before.

“I told you before that I always try and tell you the truth.” He begins. Algy’s brown eyes- dark in this light- follow him earnestly and he looks away, gathering his thoughts. “I always end up remembering our conversation on the stairs. When you walked out on me.” He glances down then adds forlornly, “you didn’t even take your coat! What if you’d got a cold?”

Algy shrugs a little as if to indicate his not really minding either way, and says instead, “I did come back though, and not a cold in sight.” He holds out his warm hand to be touched as assurance but instead Biggles stands up and asks, a little bitterly, “To me?”

Algy laughs forcedly, “who else? The chump who got his head mixed up with a bus?” but his attempt at lightening the mood fails miserably and in the end, unable to sleep, he wanders restlessly alone around his room.

 

Light green curtains don’t provide illumination by themselves and the moon light is weak enough that he stumbles into a pile of papers which lie, forgotten, under his window. He doesn’t usually stand against it thanks to a fear (still strong) of bomb-burst glass. Having moved there to get something different to think on, he feels the least he can do is read them.

 

Idly seated on the edge of his bed, lamp lit and producing ample light for him to read by, he peruses them. Notes postmarked England and Scotland, France and Egypt provide an itinerary of war. Most of these are nothing more than quick, sometimes coded notes signalling that Biggles has arrived at the new postal address of hell. The England and Scotland- based ones are longer and full of news and the occasional sentence which Algy, now, realises was the beginning of their current relationship.

 “I know the Flight will be doing well”

“I thought of you the other day when I walked past a florist selling sunflowers.”

“Would you like some acid drops? I thought humbugs and then I thought maybe not.”

He stares at a note written in a small hand, in a sort of code, with only the sun-faded, sand-smelling paper as a sign that it came from Africa. This was never posted, it was handed to his batman via an intermediary after their meeting at the oasis, when they thought it was all over. He stares at the message a long time. He knows it’s in code, that it wasn’t written for the interpretation he’s giving it but at the same time he knows the man who wrote it and it doesn’t seem entirely implausible.

Glumly he climbs back under the blankets and turns out the light. It doesn’t stop that last question- returned to James?- tap dancing in his brain. He has done some of the sorts of things men in love do.

Silly risks taken because it was Biggles there, not some Joe Blogs, things he’s said that he wouldn’t say to anyone else. But then surely he’d realise he was in love? Surely you can’t be in love and not realise it?

Then again, it’s not as though he’s ever felt like this with anyone else, and isn’t that a version of love?

He considers until light, and the only answer he has is asking the man himself. After all, if James is in love with Algy then he’ll know all about it.

 

***

 

The usual sounds of Ginger stumbling into clothes and towards breakfast, Mrs. Symes toting kippers and toast towards their table, Biggles shaving and dressing, bestir Algy. With gradually faster movements he dresses, shaves, and presents himself in time to rescue the last two kippers from Gingers’ fork.

“I have to work today.” Ginger points out, sulkily.

“And I have to as well.” Algy counters, munching an obscene amount of fish at once.

“What, you?” Ginger half-jests, mashing the kipper into a sort of paste for his toast which gives both men the shudders.

“Yes, me. I do have some tasks to do in my life of otherwise indolent lounging.”

Ginger looks like he’s about to say something further when Biggles comments on Ginger’s recovery and all is well again. Until the subject of socialising after work, “with your head” comes up. It’s not that Biggles is against it, strictly speaking, he just wants to make sure that Ginger can stand on his own two feet (in case, as he puts it darkly to Algy, something should happen like lift failing, or thrust and drag inverting). That particular disagreement is soothed over by Algy, as per usual, and Ginger heads off without commenting again on the kippers.

Biggles watches Algy busy himself with marmalade and the newspaper glumly, sure that if he doesn’t act now they’ll never have another opening. He’s never felt this certain about their need to finally face this issue head on, and is currently throwing desperate ideas around his head. He’s weighing up between kidnapping Algy and force- feeding him poetry or presenting him with a ring, when Algy sets down the almost uneaten toast and says, thickly, “I’ve been a prize chump.”

Biggles gives a quick start, but comments reassuringly, “You know I will always forgive you, old boy. Even if you don’t return it, you know.”

Algy nods for a while and then tears his gaze from the reports on the front of the paper of workers wanted.

“What if I did return it?”

 

Everything stops.

 

They’re both sure of it.

The silence is broken by a slightly awkward laugh. “I told you I was a chump.” Algy says, sadly. His knees stiffen as he stands and pushes away his plate. The silence is back, but heavier and invasive.

James’ thoughts have been compressed. Or maybe stretched. He isn’t analysing them anymore, all he knows is they’ve stopped making sense. Algy is standing up, moving away, leaving his breakfast (and that hasn’t happened since 11th November 1922) and as far as James can tell, leaving.

Leaving.

It’s like their conversation on the stairs, only with less purpose. That time, he knew exactly where he was. Sticking out his heart, yes, but in a way he’d been doing for years. It was natural and when Algy walked away....it hurt. But he felt _something_. Now....

”Where are you going? You can’t say that and then leave! What did I tell you about leaving?” He voice breaks on leaving, but he can’t care.

Algy has stopped.

They’re both standing now, separated by the table and the hurried steps Algy forced himself to take when he pushed himself away in despair.

Biggles’ hand stretches across the table and they both look at it.

It shakes slightly, but they both still focus on it.

The small tremors, the smaller hand are brought into relief as Algy’s hand shuffles closer. Palms up, their hands slide a little closer.

They both have calluses from Vickers guns on their palms, which they move to align.

It’s been a long time since the matching trigger-finger markings have been this close, and even longer since they touched. James’ trembling brings them into occasional contact, and Algy suddenly turns his hand over and presses them together. He couldn’t help himself. This was the man who had stuck by him through all those years, with honesty and comradeship, at the very least. The last few years he’d been clear about his acceptance of whatever Algy was turning into. He knew there was something he was turning into. He didn’t know what part Biggles was playing in that yet, but he was.

“You said I shouldn’t.” Algy answers dutifully, reverting to a lighter tone of speech.

“And even if you don’t follow instruction very well all the time...”

Algy’s hand twitched a little as his lips quirked in a smile. “You aren’t still holding that over me are you?” but he tightens his grip and starts stepping around the table towards James.

“I can think of better things...”

Algy grins, “to drop?” and brings his other hand up to touch- finally- James’ neck.


End file.
